The Boy Who Existed
by Blasphemopolis
Summary: The Boy Who Lived. Child celebrity of happenstance. Little boy with a big shadow, right over a struggling Draco Malfoy's privilege. No one talks about Harry Potter, Teacher's Pet. No one delves into the dark side of Potter's rule-breaking and dastardly framing of greater boys! Not until Draco Malfoy...
1. PROLOGUE

**PROLOGUE**

Whoops and cheers filled the streets, as did brilliant sparks of every color. People were dancing, grabbing strangers and swinging them in jubilant circles. One witch made a grab for a harried Lucius Malfoy, only to be violently shrugged off. He sped up and grimaced as another parliament of owls swept by, guarding his face from the torrent of feathers and party-goers alike with an arm.

"The Boy Who Lived!" It might as well have been a chorus of hexes, for The Boy Who Lived in conjunction meant The Plan That Failed.

That plan just happened to be his.

"Malfoy! Malfoy!" cried an older, heavier man (one of those gits from the Ministry – he could hardly tell them apart) from the crowd, clearly deep in his butterbeers. "Did you hear! Hic! Did you hear about The Boy Who Lived?"

He whirled around.

"What do you think I am!" shouted Lucius. "_Deaf_?"

Ministry Git may as well have been, for he kept reveling on.

He had to get out of sight before someone sober spotted him.

* * *

The aroma of baking drifted down the hall, though its warmth was lost under Narcissa's chilled tone.

"There must have be a mistake here, Mr. Dawlish..."

It would be a vain hope that Lucius would simply wake up from an Auror-laden nightmare, for this Auror-laden nightmare was their post-Dark Lord life. Instead, he smoothed out his bathrobe and mentally ran through his alibis.

"Lucius, dear?" called his wife when she heard his slippered footsteps down the hall. She cradled their son in her arms, stroking Draco's forehead. "We have... _unexpected_ visitors."

_Unexpected._ That had a different meaning in Malfoyish.

**Unexpected**

___**adjective**_

Completely and utterly expected and planned for, usually to the other party's detriment: _it was an unexpected tragedy when the Bones family was found to now resemble their surname._

Typical, and something that should have been expected and planned for: _how unexpected that Moody's Cruciatus spell would be that potent seven times over._

Deviating from unspoken expectations: _it was entirely unexpected that Dobby would attempt to poison Narcissa's favorite sister._

"I believe they're just in time for breakfast," Lucius drawled, leisurely taking his seat at the dining table.

Both Aurors – Merlin cared which was who – had their wands pointed at him, to which he nonchalantly rose his hands into sight.

"Might I ask the meaning of this?" he faux-casually asked, brows arched high.

One of the Aurors opened their mouths, before an owl started scraping at the window. It had a parcel, carefully wrapped in pink silk with a gift tag tying it off. Narcissa's flinch was near-imperceptible, were one not her husband – or trained to watch for discomfort. One Auror kept his wand trained on Lucius, while the other went to retrieve the parcel.

"'_To my beloved sister!'_" he read out, cynically, before counter-jinxing the present.

Nothing happened.

Lucius and Narcissa looked to each other, and then the package, with matching frowns.

"It's a boy," they explained in tired, habitual unison.

The Auror drew it open, peered in, and closed it, clearing his throat.

"Oh."

Draco let out a sudden, punctuated wail.

Nothing sped an interrogation along like pureblood family feuds.


	2. The Queen of Azkaban

**THE QUEEN OF AZKABAN**

"Father! Look at that!" Perhaps Father had learned to tune that line out long ago, for it was Draco's favorite mantra in the streets of Diagon Alley.

"On our way back, son," came his father's offhanded response. "Your father has important business to attend to first, Draco." And such was his father's anti-mantra.

"What could _possibly_ be more important than my first day at Hogwarts, father?" His voice had an edge to it, not unlike Father's when he was haggling up.

The long-haired wizard halted in his steps, looking down to his son and putting his hands on his hips. Draco quickly followed suit, and held his gaze.

"You wouldn't want me, _the Chairman of Governor's son_, to fall behind on the first day, _would you_?"

His governor father grimaced for a split second, before dragging a hand down his face in defeat. It was rarely a difficult victory.

"Tell you what. We'll give you an _extra_ edge in practical lessons, Draco, as you deserve." He counted out some galleons from a deceptively small green coin purse, dropping each into his son's eagerly outstretched hand. "This is your school budget-"

"_What?_" hissed Draco, mouth open to complain.

"_And_, this here..." murmured his father, drawing out an opaque glass bottle, simply labeled "XXVII", taking care to conceal it from passersby, "is something Borgin has been asking after.

"Take no less than twelve galleons." He passed it carefully into Draco's hand, which slid it carefully up his sleeve. A smile quirked his father's stern lips. "I trust you'll ask its worth.

"If your mother sees you... tell her I'm around the corner."

Draco Malfoy walked out of Knockturn Alley with thirty-three galleons.

His mother never let him wander through Diagon Alley on his own (something to do with Pureblood haters), and after her last reaction to an ill-placed _"well, **Father** lets me!"_, there was a silent understanding that their day trips were not a subject to be brought up. Unlike his father, he knew that Mother already knew it was a fruitless battle. She'd seen him going down the street alone twice in the same evening, to which they both pretended that they hadn't noticed each other noticing each other.

He chatted with (technically, at) some of the purebloods at the market, and turned his nose up at the blood traitors and mudbloods. Some of the children were truly _vague_ about their heritage in a most unbecoming way – there was even a boy who talked fondly of a _giant_, of all things! Probably one of those hopeless Hufflepuffs - but the right people usually made their heritage known quite quickly.

Usually.

"Careful, Weasely," he drawled at an unassuming redheaded girl, who was brushing her fingers over a vined plant. "There's an _'it breaks you, you buy it'_ policy on Devil's Snares."

She was a whole lot of nothing. Dirty robes, with the smell of _servitude_ hanging all over her. The girl looked over her shoulder with blinking brown eyes, hands still gently resting on the plant.

"Sorry?" she breathed out, looking at him uncertainly. "Do you mean me? … And this?"

There wasn't the slightest hint of animosity in her voice.

"Yes, _you,_" he sneered, bewildered by her placidity, and certain she was toying with him. "You _are_ a Weasley, right?"

"No," she simply responded, big eyes still focused on him. "And this is just a flitterbloom," she explained patiently. Draco opened his mouth to snap at her, but she didn't seem to realize it. "Don't worry. They look the same."

"I... was teasing you," he mumbled, brow furrowing. He couldn't tell whether she was mocking him, or just plain _simple._

There was a poignant pause, which he was secretly grateful for her ending. "Okay. My name's Susan. What's yours?"

Susan... Susan... Susan... He didn't _know_ of any low-born Susans offhand – which certainly didn't mean there _weren't_ any – but he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Draco. Draco Malfoy." Susan extended her dirty hand, which Draco simply looked down at. She dropped her hand with a small, uncomfortable smile.

"Oh. Malfoy. Your father mails my aunt. All... all the time." The smile became even more uncomfortable.

Oh _Merlin._ Was she a Dumbledore? He could have sworn they only mixed with goats.

"It's... it's getting late." Susan fussed with her hand and looked longingly to the door. The sun had yet to start setting. "I'll see you around..?"

"I suppose," he drawled, fussing with his sleeves to look less intent on figuring out _who she was._ His father wrote to plenty of mudbloods and half-bloods to put them in their proper place, and accounts of his attentions were frequently greatly exaggerated by lessers. It was silly to dwell on; she was probably nobody.

Susan Nobody walked out the door, and Draco's eyes followed.

"Don't tarry too long, Draco," called Narcissa from the window. "We're going to visit Auntie Bellatrix, and then you get your Comet." She'd given up trying to keep up with the model numbers, what with how long they lasted. She was convinced Draco had found every Whomping Willow in Wiltshire by age five.

Draco stopped beating the Mudblood kid with one of his father's spare walking sticks, but only long enough to call back, "yes, Mother!"

Crabbe sniggered as Goyle lifted the Mudblood up higher to see if he could still reach. Draco looked up, contemplating whether it was worth the effort, and then handed the stick off to Crabbe.

"Have at it," he drawled as he brushed some stray dirt off himself.

Auntie Bella put the "strange" in Lestrange. He couldn't help but think of her as a permanent fixture in the prison of Azkaban. His earliest memories of her were behind those bars, with her lips pulled back in something between a smug sneer and a silent howl. Where most of the prisoners seemed to be not quite alive... Auntie Bella was "not quite there" in an entirely different way.

She was alive, which was something that seemed to cause the dementors to ignore her. She strode like a monarch across the cold stone floor, even though her royal march was a matter of feet. Her shoulders were sharp. Her gaze was sharp. Her victory was clear in her poise - yet what anyone could win in a depressing place like Azkaban was questionable. Even her husband had the Azkaban stare: find a corner, fold up or curl into it, keep his chin tucked into his chest or knees... stare ahead vacantly.

"She may have lost the battle, Draco," his mother had once said as they departed from their visit, "but she has not lost the war." His father called her a fool and a prime example of how not to fight - but only when Mother was well out of ear shot. Such words both Malfoy men knew better than to repeat in front of her. They hadn't even stepped through the door, and Mother's lower lip was already precariously trembling.

Draco squeezed her hand, much like he saw his Father do on such rare occasions. After all, Mother in a bad mood was quite the pain to be around.

There was no such thing as a good mood in Azkaban (Auntie Bella's aside), which was why Draco made sure to ask for something expensive each visit.

Sobs filled the stony halls, echoing, reverberating through his bones. His mother squeezed his hand, hiking her chin up as high as it could go, somewhere in the stratosphere.

Auntie Bella was there, pacing with her hands clasped regally behind her back.

"Is the husband out?" she bit when her eyes landed on her sister.

"He's taking care of business," came her even response. "Can you believe that nearsighted bat is _keeping_ that dreaded book in?"

His aunt let out a childish, bubbly giggle. He couldn't tell whether it was her laugh or the dementors that were making his skin crawl.

Thoughts of the Alaunus, the father of their peacock party, began to creep up unbidden. It wasn't fair. Draco had only been seven when it happened, and Alaunus had been the fiercest protector of them all. He could feel his hands shaking and eyes stinging, like Mother had come up bearing the terrible news just yesterday.

"Dear sweet Lucius, squalling over _books_ while the Dark Lord awaits the work of His faithful servants? How _precious._" The flush of his mother's cheeks stood out starkly against her pale hair and skin. "I hope my nephew doesn't take after him."

His stomach sunk. What should he have done? Was he really less of a man for not being in Azkaban? For not being manhandled like common criminals?

"You should see what Draco's been doing, Bella." Ah, the clever and ever-polite diversion. "He has quite the knack for potions, just like his father." She put a hand approvingly (or perhaps just to ground herself) on his shoulder. Draco smiled obligatorily, glad for the distraction from his increasingly depressing thoughts.

"Professor Snape says I'm leagues ahead of his seventh years," he volunteered, perhaps a little too desperately. His skin was cold and his gut was tight.

Auntie Bella's face twisted into something that made a mockery of smiles, sauntering up to the bars and bending over to level herself with Draco. "Is that so, sweetie?"

Suddenly, she grabbed him through the bars and slammed him up against them, lifting him off the ground by his collar.

"**SNAPE SHOULD BE ROTTING IN HERE TOO!"**

Mother had a very effective "memory charm" for these visits, and that incantation went to the tune of "Carrow Sisters".


End file.
